Newsletter of the Bereaved & Weary

Is it wrong to tell the truth?  Even if people don't want to hear it or you make yourself look less than admirable?

My truth, today, at least, is that I hate my Cory-less world.  If anyone wants to really know what's like after the loss of a child, with no sugar-coating,  then buddy, here it is:   I hate everything.  And I'm pretty sure everyone in my immediate circle is sick and tired of me hating everything.  Well, isn't that just too damn bad.  Walk away and go talk to your kids or something.

You see that?  That rude, horrible burning jealousy just boils out of me day and night.  It's not my friends and family's fault that my child was taken, but apparently my fury is no respecter of persons.  I can hardly stand to be around kids the age Cory would be.  It breaks my heart.  And throw in a mother/daughter duo that bares some minute resemblance to each other, and I'm a goner.  I'm talking, physically sick to my stomach and on the verge of a wail-a-thon.  See why I stay home so much?

You remember that saying, you always want what you can't have?  Curly hair wants straight.  Straight wants curly.  How to calm this primal need to be in the company of my child?  Or at least to know she walks and talks, in one instead of many pieces, and that I will see her at Christmas?  I don't know how to dampen this pining.  (Heads up, online shopping helps but doesn't last long enough, and it's very dangerous).

This weekend, I, very responsibly I might add, woke up, made arrangements for Jake's day, and at home, in my bed, swallowed some lovely Ativan.  Ativan...such a tiny pill, but what wondrous powers.  I woke up Sunday afternoon, thinking it was still Saturday, and for the first time in a week, I hadn't dreamt of running up to find Cory twisted with bones sticking out and blood everywhere.  There lies the rub- I can't just stay at home everyday bombed out of my mind on Ativan...if only I could.

Jacob.  I love love love my son.  Do you understand?  There is no shortage of wonder or affection for that precious little man.  He delights me daily.  This, however, does not make him my daughter.  Our relationship is every bit as different from mine and Cory's as it could be.  So when well-meaning people say to me, "Oh, well, at least you have other children.", I quite honestly want to hit them in the back of the head.  Or so that they may better understand my perspective, sneak into their house in the black of night, and steal just one (eenie, meanie, miney, mo...) of their children from their care, never to be seen again.  Hmm...wonder how fast they'd stop singing the "at least you have other children" tune then?

And finally, in this newsletter of the bereaved and weary, let me share my discovery for the day.  It is that someone saying "maybe you should meet some people who have lost a child"  may very well translate to "I've hit my max with your whining, so for the love of God, go talk to someone else."  Not that I can blame them.  I remember what it was like to be around someone who refused to lift their eyes from their feet- it can be infuriating.

So I find myself in that position where I am probably very hard to like, and having a hard time liking myself.  As a nod to the ones out there who declare it'll get better in time, I offer this,
"Maybe tomorrow will be a better day."